then we can get out of here. You two had better go around
together and hand out a few hellos. Then we can meet at
the ice cream booth. After that, if you say so, we’ll leave,
eh? What do you say?”
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He looked at Zella Shuman as much as to say: “You know
what is the best thing to do,” and she smiled and replied:
“That’s right. We can’t leave right away. I see my cousin
Mary over there. And Mother. And Fred Bruckner. Rita and
I’ll just go around by ourselves for a while and then we’ll
meet you, see.” And Rita Dickerman forthwith bestowed
upon Clyde an intimate and possessive smile.
After about twenty minutes of drifting and browsing, Dillard
received some signal from Zella, and he and Clyde paused
near the ice cream booth with its chairs in the center of the
room. In a few moments they were casually joined by Zella
and Rita, with whom they had some ice cream and cake.
And then, being free of all obligations and as some of the
others were beginning to depart, Dillard observed: “Let’s
beat it. We can go over to your place, can’t we?”
“Sure, sure,” whispered Zella, and together they made their
way to the coat room. Clyde was still so dubious as to the
wisdom of all this that he was inclined to be a little silent. He
did not know whether he was fascinated by Rita or not. But
once out in the street out of view of the church and the
homing amusement seekers, he and Rita found themselves
together, Zella and Dillard having walked on ahead. And
although Clyde had taken her arm, as he thought fit, she
maneuvered it free and laid a warm and caressing hand on
his elbow. And she nudged quite close to him, shoulder to
shoulder, and half leaning on him, began pattering of the
life of Lycurgus.
There was something very furry and caressing about her
voice now. Clyde liked it. There was something heavy and
languorous about her body, a kind of ray or electron that
intrigued and lured him in spite of himself. He felt that he
would like to caress her arm and might if he wished—that
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he might even put his arm around her waist, and so soon.
Yet here he was, a Griffiths, he was shrewd enough to think
—a Lycurgus Griffiths—and that was what now made a
difference—that made all those girls at this church social
seem so much more interested in him and so friendly. Yet
in spite of this thought, he did squeeze her arm ever so
slightly and without reproach or comment from her.
And once in the Shuman home, which was a large old-
fashioned square frame house with a square cupola, very
retired among some trees and a lawn, they made
themselves at home in a general living room which was
much more handsomely furnished than any home with
which Clyde had been identified heretofore. Dillard at once
began sorting the records, with which he seemed most
familiar, and to pull two rather large rugs out of the way,
revealing a smooth, hardwood floor.
“There’s one thing about this house and these trees and
these soft-toned needles,” he commented for Clyde’s
benefit, of course, since he was still under the impression
that Clyde might be and probably was a very shrewd
person who was watching his every move here. “You can’t
hear a note of this Victrola out in the street, can you, Zell?
Nor upstairs, either, really, not with the soft needles. We’ve
played it down here and danced to it several times, until
three and four in the morning and they didn’t even know it
upstairs, did they, Zell?”
“That’s right. But then Father’s a little hard of hearing. And
Mother don’t hear anything, either, when she gets in her
room and gets to reading. But it is hard to hear at that.”
“Why do people object so to dancing here?” asked Clyde.
“Oh, they don’t—not the factory people—not at all,” put in
Dillard, “but most of the church people do. My uncle and
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aunt do. And nearly everyone else we met at the church to-
night, except Zell and Rita.” He gave them a most
approving and encouraging glance. “And they’re too broad-
minded to let a little thing like that bother them. Ain’t that
right, Zell?”
This young girl, who was very much fascinated by him,
laughed and nodded, “You bet, that’s right. I can’t see any
harm in it.”
“Nor me, either,” put in Rita, “nor my father and mother.
Only they don’t like to say anything about it or make me feel
that they want me to do too much of it.”
Dillard by then had started a piece entitled “Brown Eyes”
and immediately Clyde and Rita and Dillard and Zella
began to dance, and Clyde found himself insensibly drifting
into a kind of intimacy with this girl which boded he could
scarcely say what. She danced so warmly and
enthusiastically—a kind of weaving and swaying motion
which suggested all. sorts of repressed enthusiasms. And
her lips were at once wreathed with a kind of lyric smile
which suggested a kind of hunger for this thing. And she
was very pretty, more so dancing and smiling than at any
other time.
“She is delicious,” thought Clyde, “even if she is a little soft.
Any fellow would do almost as well as me, but she likes me
because she thinks I’m somebody.” And almost at the
same moment she observed: “Isn’t it just too gorgeous?
And you’re such a good dancer, Mr. Griffiths.”
“Oh, no,” he replied, smiling into her eyes, “you’re the one
that’s the dancer. I can dance because you’re dancing with
me.”
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He could feel now that her arms were large and soft, her
bosom full for one so young. Exhilarated by dancing, she
was quite intoxicating, her gestures almost provoking.
“Now we’ll put on ‘The Love Boat,’” called Dillard the
moment “Brown Eyes” was ended, “and you and Zella can
dance together and Rita and I will have a spin, eh, Rita?”
He was so fascinated by his own skill as a dancer,
however, as well as his natural joy in the art, that he could
scarcely wait to begin another, but must take Rita by the
arms before putting on another record, gliding here and
there, doing steps and executing figures which Clyde could
not possibly achieve and which at once established Dillard
as the superior dancer. Then, having done so, he called to
Clyde to put on “The Love Boat.”
But as Clyde could see after dancing with Zella once, this
was planned to be a happy companionship of two mutually
mated couples who would not interfere with each other in
any way, but rather would aid each other in their various
schemes to enjoy one another’s society. For while Zella
danced with Clyde, and danced well and talked to him
much, all the while he could feel that she was interested in
Dillard and Dillard only and would prefer to be with him. For,
after a few dances, and while he and Rita lounged on a
settee and talked, Zella and Dillard left the room to go to
the kitchen for a drink. Only, as Clyde observed, they
stayed much longer than any single drink would have
required.
And similarly, during this interval, it seemed as though it
was intended even, by Rita, that he and she should draw
closer to one another. For, finding the conversation on the
settee lagging for a moment, she got up and apropos of
nothing—no music and no words—motioned him to dance
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some more with her. She had danced certain steps with
Dillard which she pretended to show Clyde. But because of
their nature, these brought her and Clyde into closer
contact than before—very much so. And standing so close
together and showing Clyde by elbow and arm how to do,
her face and cheek came very close to him—too much for
his own strength of will and purpose. He pressed his cheek
to hers and she turned smiling and encouraging eyes upon
him. On the instant, his self-possession was gone and he
kissed her lips. And then again—and again. And instead of
withdrawing them, as he thought she might, she let him—
remained just as she was in order that he might kiss her
more.
And suddenly now, as he felt this yielding of her warm body
so close to him, and the pressure of her lips in response to
his own, he realized that he had let himself in for a
relationship which might not be so very easy to modify or
escape. Also that it would be a very difficult thing for him to
resist, since he now liked her and obviously she liked him.